


freak like me

by enbyofdionysus



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Canon Divergence, Character Death, M/M, prokopenko as a dreamer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 20:25:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8299771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enbyofdionysus/pseuds/enbyofdionysus
Summary: “Death is a boring side effect.”Before Joseph Kavinsky had said it to Ronan Lynch, he had said it a year before in the driver's seat of his Mitsubishi to one Sasha Prokopenko.





	

“Death is a boring side effect.”

Before Joseph Kavinsky had said it to Ronan Lynch, he had said it a year before in the driver's seat of his Mitsubishi to one Sasha Prokopenko.

That was back when Prokopenko had been forged from the dick and vag of two Ukrainian billionaires rather than the genitals of Kavinsky's mind. Back when he had the annoying habit of snapping his gum. Back when he would sit with his thighs splayed open not because K wanted him to, but because _he_ wanted to. Back when Proko was Proko and the two of them were freaks of nature, drawing things from their fucked up minds and waking up with them in their calloused hands. Back when the world was theirs to mold and destroy as they pleased.

Kavinsky had been better at it – he got in and got out with his newly conceived object clenched victoriously in his fist. Prokopenko was content with exploring; a fallen angel content with the world its god had made. When Prokopenko _did_ take from his dreams they were little things, but intricate things. Beautiful things. Psychedelic drugs that took you anywhere and everywhere; a snow-globe with every inch, with every centimeter of the galaxy inside of it; a little tree that would grow and blossom with affection rather than with sun and water.

Prokopenko had been as fucked up as the rest of them, drunk on privilege and fiercely arrogant, but there had always been something more to him than the others. An innocence buried inside somewhere that hadn't yet been torn apart; a heart, a soul. He saw the good in people while K saw the ugly. It was what made Kavinsky keep him at his side: a dog and his master.

The last time Prokopenko had been Prokopenko, it had been like any other Friday night with the two of them out in the middle of no where. It was safer that way, to dream. Kavinsky had been growing more and more ambitious and to dream up something large, like a car, would be hard to explain were anyone to catch them. Trees lined the abandoned dirt road and grasped at the Mitsubishi with withering fingers. Winter had finally fallen into its grave and so Proko was wearing one of K's t-shirts under his usual leather jacket rather than a sweater. He had just finished smoking a cigarette when Kavinsky had handed him the pill.

“Does it work?” he had asked.

Kavinsky sneered at him and turned his hat so he could lean back against the seat. “We're about to find out.”

“Any side effects?” Proko had asked.

K had given him a sidelong glance. He hadn't really thought about it.

“Death is a boring side effect,” he amended.

Proko grinned at him, warm and wicked. “Cheers.”

They swallowed at the same time.

Fell at the same time.

Hard.

Fast.

When Kavinsky woke, it took several minutes for him to move. But when he did, he held an exact copy of Prokopenko's jacket. Every fold, every crease, even the smell of Proko's faggy cologne. He grinned at it and then at Proko who still hadn't woken up. He slipped on the jacket as he waited for him, then lit one of Proko's cigarettes when he still hadn't come back after ten minutes.

After twenty minutes, Kavinsky made a disgruntled sound. “You better be dreaming me the world, you piece of shit.”

After thirty minutes, Kavinsky's skin began to itch. He frowned at Prokopenko's still form. And then realized he looked far more still than usual when he was dreaming.

“Proko,” K said.

No response.

“Proko.”

Suddenly and all at once it dawned on him why Prokopenko looked so still.

He wasn't breathing.

“ _Proko_.”

Kavinsky jerked forward. He grabbed Prokopenko's neck with his hand as if to choke him. Felt. Waited. There was no pulse. His skin was cool despite the jacket. K took his hand away. He was shaking. He took another one of Prokopenko's cigarettes and put it in his mouth, lit it, smoked. Then took another one, put it in his mouth, lit it, smoked. Another. Mouth. Lit. Smoke. Another. Lit. Smoke. Another. Smoke. Another. Another. Another.

By the time Kavinsky finished the pack, it had been an hour and Prokopenko hadn't come back from his dream. K looked at him with wild eyes, waiting, waiting, but Proko's skin was cold, cold.

Kavinsky got out of the car.

Walked around.

Opened the passenger side door.

Yanked open Prokopenko's eyelids with his fingers.

Backed up at their lack of light.

Swore.

Paced.

Swore.

Looked at Prokopenko.

 _Swore_.

**

Sasha Prokopenko was buried beneath a maple tree in the back country of Henrietta, Virginia.

Sasha Prokopenko also sat in the passenger seat of Kavinsky's Mitsubishi, his thighs splayed open, not chewing gum.

Sometimes Kavinsky forgot it wasn't really him. His lips tasted the same, his chortle was the same, his ears were still fucked up looking, and his grin was still lopsided. But the little mistakes always reminded him. He didn't get quiet when he was about to cum anymore, didn't look at Kavinsky with wild fire eyes when K jokingly called him his bitch, and he didn't press against him when they got too drunk to move.

But Joseph Kavinsky didn't grieve.

He created.

And so he found someone else who knew how to create.


End file.
